


You're on My Tongue and Down My Throat

by venilia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Comeplay, M/M, PWP, Past Underage, Sensory Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venilia/pseuds/venilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of Stiles’ laughter is at Derek, at the way he’s glutting himself on Stiles’ scent and touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're on My Tongue and Down My Throat

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE thank you to [Classlicity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Classlicity/pseuds/Classlicity) for the beta. You, my dear, are amazing. I messed around after she finished, so any remaining mistakes are mine.

Stiles melts sweetly when Derek gets his hands on him. He’s perfect, a mix of silky, sensitive skin that jumps at the softest touch and the rough, unmistakably guy feel of stubble and plump balls, muscle and the brush of his buzz cut on Derek’s palms.

Stiles likes to laugh, even when he feels awkward. Derek can smell the awkwardness clinging at the base of his neck and below his armpits. It’s kind of a burnt marshmallow smell, but it’s so overpowered by male lust and Stiles that Derek doesn’t mind it. He’s Stiles all over, but the young-male-virility part comes out more at his armpits, a little masked by Stiles’ deodorant. It’s a sensitive-skin brand that doesn’t make Derek want to claw his nose off. He likes that sensitive skin -- likes how easily Stiles will mark up, stain red and pink from Derek’s stubble.

Some of Stiles’ laughter is at Derek, at the way he’s glutting himself on Stiles’ scent and touch, rubbing like a possessive housecat.

“Here, kitty kitty!” Stiles says.

Derek growls, but he doesn’t mean it, and Stiles knows that by now. He just smiles and ducks his head to such Derek’s earlobe into his mouth, an intimate, slow sucking that makes Derek’s toes curl and his blood rush.

Mostly Stiles is laughing for joy, unashamedly happy that he’s finally got Derek in his bed. Stiles is beautiful.

“Are you-” Stiles pulls back. Derek’s not a fan of the inches of empty space he suddenly finds between them.

“Are you purring?” Stiles says. “‘Cause you’re not growling. You’re happy. You’re purring?”

Derek shakes his head, less denial, more lack of words to explain. It feels good to pull Stiles’ scent into his chest, feel it rumble there, like letting whiskey settle just right on your tongue. Derek’s reveling in it, doesn’t think he can stop because this is Stiles, finally.

“Wanna suck you,” he says.

Stiles’ throat clicks. He stares, eyes wide and blown black. Derek will take that as a yes.

He ducks down between Stiles’ thighs. Stiles loses his balance and slips back onto his elbows, propping himself up so he can stare at Derek. Derek buries a smile in Stiles’ pubes, takes a second just to breathe. Here he’s musky, his pheromones trapped in the crinkly hair. Derek digs fingers through it, feels Stiles’ dick jump near Derek’s throat, leaving a little wet drop there. Pulling back, he rubs that drip of precome and sex scent into his skin. Stiles can’t leave scratches on Derek’s skin, but he can still mark Derek.

“Barosmia” Stiles says, voice strained. “Sexual arousal caused by scent.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Werewolf,” he says.

Stiles is trying to pretend his eyes aren’t watching the way Derek’s feeling up Stiles’ thighs, rubbing up and down the taut skin, enjoying the sprinkling of hair. Derek’s always enjoyed the unconscious sexiness of a guy’s body, enjoyed the aesthetics of a fine-fingered hand, slim male hips. He’d never expected to have a boyfriend so much younger than him, but then he met Stiles, annoying, stubborn, clever, pretty Stiles. Loyal Stiles, who is better at being pack than some of his betas. Stupid Stiles who stands up to violent Alphas with a hammering heart, reeking of fear-sweat, without the smallest thought that maybe he should back down. Back out. Go home.

He’s infuriating. Perfect.

“Well,” Stiles says, “yeah. But is that a werewolf thing, or a you thing? Does Scott-- ew. Never mind.”

With a smirk, Derek lips at Stiles’ cockhead, gets all the tastes there sorted in his hindbrain where his instincts keep records. He hums low in his throat, loving that he gets to know Stiles so well.

Everything feels right.

Stiles is the perfect mix of sweet and bitter. He tastes like the soft, almost-oily skin of genitals, clean, like Zest soap he uses which stings yellow-green under Derek’s tongue, blending into the tart red aliveness of being this close to pumping blood. Derek swallows, sealing his lips around the head, and there’s a fresh surge of arousal-scent right under his nose. Derek gulps Stiles’ dick down and moans, low.

Stiles moans back. “Oh my god, you’re going to kill me,” he says, words drawn out and sloppy in his mouth.

Derek pulls off, lets his lips pop as they leave for the little hitch in Stiles’ hips. “The French name for an orgasm is la petite mort,” he says, even though he’s sure Stiles already knows this fact. Derek’s an asshole like that.

Stiles’ mouth is open. He’s panting, just a little, and when Derek runs a hand up and down his belly he shivers.

“Fucker,” he manages. “C’mon.”

Derek feels smug as he swallows Stiles down. He can go a little faster now that he’s got Stiles’ scent and taste. He’s eager for Stiles’ sounds. They’re cut out of him, bitten off. Stiles lets moans and gasps out of the back of his throat like he’s trying to swallow them down to his belly. He breathes harshly. His hips jump under Derek, and the muscles in his legs bunch and twitch.

Derek’s so hard he can hardly see straight. He’s drunk of the sensory feast. Somewhere in the back of Derek’s brain his senses have been waiting for this opportunity for years, patiently storing up little moments to torment Derek while he was trying to ignore the horny teenage boners and willing body language. Stiles is barely eighteen. Derek’s trying so hard not to feel like a pervert but it’s hard when Stiles is so very appealing, with his pretty hands and bright eyes, his clever brain and the way he plants his feet in the ground when he’s making a stand.

Derek’s working off instinct and muscle memory, too sex-stupid for a game plan. One hand slicks up and down Stiles’ cock while Derek’s tongue slides around the underside of the soft cockhead in his mouth. Stiles is jittery, hands fisting in his pillow and sheets, head craning back, adam’s apple bobbing.

“You -- fuck. You. Derek. It--” he says. Nonsense start-and-stops around the moans and wrecked gasps. It hasn’t been long, but Derek’s ready for this. He keeps going a little longer and there: Stiles whines and comes, whispering “fuck fuck fuck” like a secret into the crook of his elbow.

Derek slots his thumbs into the grooves of Stiles hips and pulls him in for a few more slow thrusts, getting all the come he can. The taste runs through him rewiring his sense of taste, flipping every single button in Derek’s brain marked “lust”.

He could probably come just from this.

Stiles jumps with little aftershocks as he comes down, and jumps again when Derek tucks a finger down to feel where Stiles’ hole is still clenching in overwhelmed little spasms. Derek pushes a little and it opens up, Stiles opens up for him smoothly, everything relaxed and easy.

He was going to crawl up and get his hands in Stiles’ bristly hair, pet him until Stiles felt up to using his hand, or letting Derek thrust against a hip. But instead Derek pulls his finger back, wets it with spit, and watches, fascinated, as it slides right in. When he glances up Stiles’ mouth is wide and red, silently drawing in deep breaths.

“You,” Derek starts. Stops. Tries again. “Is this....Yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s yeah,” Stiles manages, barely there again. His half-hard dick twitches, somewhere between exhausted and desperate.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles keeps saying on exhales, vowels going longer and longer as Derek pushes in more, feels around. Stiles is hot, a little snug around his finger, but still open. His hips don’t know what to do, how to thrust back, so Derek shows him how to bend his legs up, spread a little. He anchors Stiles’ thighs in place with his weight on one forearm, crouches on his knees so he has room. Derek pulls his finger back out, brings it to his mouth to slick up more. Something hits his head and falls onto the sheets.

“You need-” Stiles says. “Lube. I can’t- I can’t even think. Fuck, how do you do this to me, even? Derek.”

Derek stares at the bottle, blindly, seeing images of Stiles with his fingers up his ass, hearing the sound of those fingers squishing in and out, hard.

“Fuck,” he hisses. His teeth are fangs. He reins them back, focuses on Stiles’ heartbeat. It’s racing fast and eager.

“Ok,” Derek says. “Fuck, Stiles.”

Stiles laughs. “I know,” he groans.

“I can’t,” Derek swallows, fighting the urge to grab his cock. It’s so dark, it’s starting to look plummy purple. “I’m not going to last long enough to fuck you, this time.”

“Spoil all my fun,” Stiles says.

Derek snorts. He rubs the lube between his fingers, trying to warm it up.

“Last time I used that,” Stiles says, “I was thinking about your fingers.”

Yeah, ok, enough talking now. Derek slides two fingers in, easy, smooth glide as Stiles’ hole just welcomes him, like it’s been waiting.

“Oh,” Stiles mutters. He’s fisting the sheets again, trying not to writhe.

“Grab your legs,” Derek says. “C’mon, give me room.”

Stiles does, flexible for a boy, but stiff from lack of practice. He digs his fingers into the flesh behind his knees, long toes in the air.

“Yeah,” Derek breathes. “Stiles, you’re so open.” He watches the slick push in, the way Stiles’ hole sucks at his fingers as he pulls them out, needy. Derek scissors his fingers open inside, twists his wrist, making room. Stiles whimpers.

Derek dredges up enough humor to say, “Settle, pup.” In his head it’s funny, but when Derek says “pup” out loud it’s dirty and his dick jumps. Stiles gasps, “Oh, fuck you. Not fair!” And then Derek must brush his prostate because he yelps “Derek!” and whimpers again. Derek adjusts so he’s hitting that sweet spot more often.

Derek’s dick is aching, but it’s worth it to watch his fingers fucking Stiles red little hole. He takes a second to make sure Stiles has a good grip on his own legs and takes away his forearm so he can just hold his cock a little as he fingers Stiles.

Stiles can’t see much from his position, but Derek can’t help giving himself a few tugs and Stiles must hear it, or see the motion, because he whines, “Derek. Your come. Come on me, right? On your fingers.”

It takes a second for Derek to realize what he’s saying and fuck, he loves Stiles’ clever brain.  
“Yeah,” he grunts, all his attention torn between the feeling of his hand on his cock, the tight clench of Stiles’ hole around his fingers, and the picture Stiles paints.

“Not safe,” he says. “We still -- no condoms?” Stiles had declared this one day while they were dry humping in his jeep, just babbled it like of course. Derek sort of hates how much the idea of no condoms turns him on, but it does.

“Fuck condoms,” Stiles agrees. “You close? You’ve got to be close.”

Derek shifts until the head of his dick is right there, brushing his fingers when he pulls them back. He’s a little clumsy with his left hand but it doesn’t matter when he can smell Stiles like this, watch his fingers fucking Stiles, hear the high pitched whines caught in Stiles throat. He’s going to come on Stiles, paint him all over with his scent.

His orgasm catches him in the spine, humping his hips forward so that his dick pushes at Stiles’ ass, come striping up behind Stiles’ balls, dripping down to Derek’s fingers. It’s scorching hot, the white of his come all over Stiles, slicking his greedy hole, the way Stiles is desperate for it.

Derek wrings the last drops out into the groove of his fingers where they’re pressed together half-outside and half-inside Stiles. He pants for a second, still. He wants to look up at Stiles, see how he looks, but first Derek watches as he slowly pushes those drops inside.

It’s obscene. Stiles moans like he can feel the difference between Derek’s come and the lube, even though he can’t.

“My dick. Derek, I need you to. I can’t reach,” Stiles says, still holding his legs up.

Derek cups Stiles’ dick. He rubs back and forth with his thumb a little, but he’s still glued to the sight of his fingers lazily fucking his come into Stiles. He pulls out his fingers, rubs his hand through his come, and fucks more of it in.

“Sure you need it?” he asks, because Stiles has come, fully clothed, from nothing but Derek playing his hands over Stiles nipples and sides, squeezing Stiles’ ass as he bit his neck.

“Fuck you to fucking hell!” Stiles says, so no, he doesn’t need it.

Derek grins.

“My come is in your ass,” he says. His voice is still low and full of sex. “Can you feel that, Stiles? Want more?” Stiles’ hole throbs forlornly as his fingers draw out. It goes on clenching and unclenching until Derek’s fingers are back, spooning in more of his come.

“Your hole’s all sloppy from me,” Derek says. “Fuck, Stiles, you’re going to smell like me all day tomorrow. In school. Feel me dripping out when you walk around.”

Stiles snorts. “Screw school. Playing hooky. Lie around all day jerking off, putting my -- my fingers up there. Feel you.”

“Yeah.” Derek’s still holding Stiles’ dick, and he can feel it firm up that last little bit that means Stiles is going to come. “Stiles, come. Want to watch you. You’re all full of my jizz.” He’s frigging his fingers in and out hard, now, brushing against Stiles’ prostate. Stiles gasps like he’s dying and obeys.

Derek looks up to watch his face. His eyes are shocked, and his mouth is all chewed red and puffy, open wide enough that Derek can see his back teeth. His stomach muscles dance. Not much comes out of his dick but Stiles’ whole body gets into this orgasm. He sounds like he’s choking, throat raspy from the moans Derek has pulled out of him.

Derek looks down to see the final couple clenches as Stiles’ hole tries to swallow his fingers right up. He keeps them tight up to the last knuckle as Stiles winds down, petting his prostate just a little to watch Stiles shock up and down, toes and fingers curling and uncurling.

“I hate you so much. Get up here so I can kiss you,” Stiles pants. Derek laughs a little as he shifts, keeping his fingers snug where they are even though it cramps his wrist.

Stiles pulls back from their slow kiss. “You taste weir-- oh. Huh. Wow.”

Derek nuzzles their cheeks together. Stiles loves the feel, but hates the stubble burn. He screeches with laughter.

“You are such an ass,” Stiles grins. “Why do I keep you?”

Derek ducks his face into the hollow of Stiles’ shoulder. It’s perfect here.

“Gonna keep you fingers there all night?” Stiles asks. It’s his first time getting beyond third base so he’s already drifting off.

Derek nips at the skin beneath his mouth and doesn't answer. He’s pretty sure Stiles will wake up wanting Round Two.


End file.
